Staring At The Bottom of a Glass
by natures in my eye
Summary: This is both a stand alone fic and a companion piece to my story, Gravedigger's Battle. If you're looking for a ride off into the sunset story this is not it. I'm a Grimm's kind of girl not a Disney one. But, if you're loyal to the Hound and want to dig deep then grab a cup of tea and have a seat. M for GOT language and suggestive themes.


_This story can stand by itself or you can read it along side my other fic, Gravedigger's Battle. It will give you a much better understanding of where I see Sandor coming from._

 _I implore you to please listen to Let Her Go by Passenger. It speaks volumes to me about Sandor and Sansa._

…

He couldn't pin point the exact thing that made her important to him. It wasn't as if he'd never seen a blossoming woman before. That awkward stage where gangly became shapely and innocence turned into knowledge. He'd seen plenty of girls and women at that point in his life. Dead and living. How it came to be that he saw her as something more than pretty skin covering blood and bones wasn't a pressing fact in his mind then. She simple wasn't one day and was the next.

He could remember the first time he saw her. He'd been riding for a month in that monstrous, fucking heavy helm. When the journey had ended and sat at attention on horseback, he saw nothing but brown on gray on miserable blue. Except for a single, red spark. It seemed out of place to him at first. But then he saw it light the entire courtyard on fire. None of it would be alive without that little bit of flame. It pushed something inside of him and he looked away in disgust. Didn't need to be _feeling_ anything. Only duty, anger, lust and hunger were needed.

But that one single moment that must have existed when she became something. Something else. Something more. It was lost to him. He'd spent hours in his cups trying to find it. On the road with the she wolf, his thoughts and memories gave him nothing but barren fruit on the matter. He'd never be able to recall that sacred space in time.

Sometimes, when he was truly tits up drunk, he would think of his sister and the Little Bird and they would swap places in his heart. Besides his mother, his sister was the only one who seemed to ever give a shit about him in his whole miserable existence. She kept their father's secret but held his hand while he wept as his face healed.

He would knock back more wine and recall her dead little eyes. Pale blue dead eyes. The Little Brid's eyes shined with life. She was all his sister would never be. He hated her for it. He loved her for it. He would drink until he passed out to forget the word love. Love and hope were words that stirred loathing in him like fuck and cunt did to the high borns.

…..

He scared the living piss out of her. He knew it. Knew it from the first time he spoke to her. Couldn't really blame the girl. He was hideous and had never gone to much length to change the fact. It was what it was. And if anyone managed to get past his face, he had scathing words and sheer brute force to keep them away.

She'd been walking that wolf mutt of hers and the creeping lizard man, Payne, had stepped into her path. He wasn't quite sure what made him move and rescue the girl from the leering executioner. Something about the way the wolf followed her. It was clearly happy to be close at her heel. A wolf was near enough to a dog. And he was a dog. He would go where the wolf went.

She was scared at first but then something shifted as she looked him right in the eye. He saw his sister's eyes looking at him and they started to have something close to a normal conversation. Then the little shit of a prince came upon them and he had to watch her face break into a smile at the toad faced boy. He looked to the ground. Half of it was a show of respect. The other half was anger and shame that he had, for one very brief moment, wished she would smile at him like that.

…

He'd bent at the knee and felt the rush of air sweep over him. It was close enough to move his hair in the breeze. _Fucking cunt_ he swore. He remained kneeling until his brother had left the field and the prancing, shiny Knight, Loras, came over to stand by him while he rose.

The brat had called him Ser and he wouldn't stand for it. His brother was a Ser and had just tried to knock his head off after the King had ordered them to lower their swords. They were all cunts. The whole lot of them. Standing and cheering for him as if he'd done something special. And then he saw that bit of flame in the crowd. She was beaming as bright as the sun. She spent half the time watching Ser Loras. But what drove a knife straight through his heart was the fact that she spent the other half of the time looking at him.

He hated her in that moment. She was everything his sister would never have a chance at being. It wasn't fair. When he was alone at night and the wine called out to him he thought of what it might be like to have something. Anything. A true lover. A family. A home. Someone to call him Sandor and not dog. Looking at her, looking at him, reminded him of everything he'd ever longed for that he would never have. He hated them all.

He spent the first part of the Tourney winnings on wine. Lots of wine. More wine then he could ever recall consuming at one time in all his life. Great fucking buckets of it. He staggered to Littlefinger's and spent nearly half of what was left to have a red headed whore take him in her mouth. He had no recollection as to whether or not he had managed to finish. What he did remember was waking in his chamber with the feeling of an axe going through his skull. But that pain was nothing next to the empty, hollow feeling that filled his heart thinking back on what he had done. He made his way to the brothel and spent everything that was left, except for a small handful of silver, to buy Littlefinger's silence on the subject. He wished he could buy silence for his own mind as well.

…

He was nothing short of cruel to her the next time they met. He dragged up every bitter memory he could find and held them all in his mind while she trembled. He made sure she saw him look her up and down. She threatened to tell the Queen and he laughed in her face. She was stupid girl. He saw real fear in her eyes. She saw what he could be. What all the cockfaced Knights she worshipped could be. Good. It was well past time that she got her head out of her fairy tales and woke the fuck up.

…

The little shit had been made King and he had been formally elevated to Kingsguard status. He refused to take their vows. He would have pissed on them if it were possible. It was the one small little piece of dignity he had left; standing up to them and staying true to his self. They had accepted. What choice did they have really? As if they would give up the power contained within him when clad in armor. He was worth far more to them with a sword in his hand than dead.

He'd had time to watch the cunt King throw his new found glory in everyone's face. The new King threatened, demanded and whined like the child that he was. He watched the cowardly boy take his feelings of inadequacy out on the girl. He thought back on a time when someone bigger, with more power than him, had held him down and made him scream. He thought about the many times he saw his sister take a back hand to the face or switch to her bottom. He seethed in anger watching history repeat itself in front of him. What really enraged him though was that he was just as fucking powerless to stop it this time around as he had been when he was a lad.

…

He was aware of her thoughts long before she was. It was his job. She stepped closer to the boy out on the landing and he knew exactly what she was about to do. Had he less love for his own head he would have let her do it. But he'd be the second to go if that bastard of a King went first so he pulled her back. She looked at him with distrust in her eyes while he wiped her mouth with a bit of cloth and then pressed it into her hands. There. He'd made it look like he was the weak one by helping her and not the stronger by stopping her from doing something traitorous. He had saved both their skins. He felt sorry for her, for his sister and himself. He tried to tell her, as best he could, that she should submit if she wanted the beatings to stop. He knew from experience that fighting only made them worse. He told her to keep the scrap of cloth, knowing she wouldn't listen to him and that there would be more blood. She had a spark in her that he, grudgingly, admired but it would only cause her trouble and pain if she gave voice to it here.

…..

He'd given up on the blasted Kingsguard armor. It was too bulky. He couldn't move right in it. If they expected him to do his job, and do it well, he was going to wear his usual gray armor. If anyone disagreed with him they never said so. He kept the cloak.

….

He was hot and sweaty after the fight. He wanted wine but stood near the King as was his duty. The girl was heading into trouble again, he could sense it. And, Gods, how stupid was she? She'd just told the King he couldn't do something. She desperately needed a lesson in self control. Yet, no one else dared to speak to the King like that. She was equal parts thrilling and exasperating.

He saw the exchange was going to end in another beating for her if he didn't step in. He made up a lie on the spot knowing the young King would listen to him. He didn't have a clue as to why, but if he kept his advice simple and gave it sparingly he was usually listened to. He gave the King a line of utter horse shit and the nod he gave was to her not the little cunt. Watch your tongue his eyes told her. She caught on to the ruse and carried it forward, daring to suggest the vomiting Dontos be made a Fool. He gave her credit for hiding her guile behind batting eyelids and a simpering look on her face. She was learning.

…

Too much wine. He'd had entirely too much wine to be patrolling the halls. But there was nothing to be done about it now. He went stumbling from hallway to corridor to staircase and ran smack into her. His wine soaked eyes took her in and for a moment he didn't breathe. Wine made it easier for her to shift from sister to woman in his mind. Her dress set off her hair and eyes. It gave shape to her hips and her newly formed teats were practically spilling out of it. He felt his cock stir.

He backed her up to a wall, taking a good long look at her. He told her all the things he wanted to do to her but used the King's name in place of his. When she started prattling on about how wonderful her wedding night would be it angered him. He knew she was learning to lie through her teeth but he never wanted to hear her lie to him. And if she wasn't lying she was gravely mistaken about how her wedding night was going to be. He'd taken a virgin or two in his time. It wasn't pleasant for the girl. It was painful and bloody even though he'd fucking _tried_ to be gentle about it. He'd given up on trying to fuck virgins long ago. He wasn't built to handle them but he also wasn't a demon like the cunt King was. Her wedding night would be torture and the sooner she realized it the better.

He took her arm and tried to show her just how painful it could be to raise a man's blood. He barely squeezed before she shouted out in pain. There, he thought, if you think that hurts Little Bird just you wait until your precious wedding night.

That's exactly what she was. Nothing but a little bird in a cage. And he a mutt in a kennel. He told her so. He mocked her fairy tales and demanded she sing one of her stupid fucking songs for him. But the fire in her hair settled in her eyes and she refused. He tried more force and a snarl. She fought right back, defying him and daring him to do something about it with her eyes. He didn't know where this new woman had come from. He wanted to learn more about her. He was ready to take up her challenge when the Imp came upon them. Fucking dwarf! He tried to keep his claim on her but the Imp sent him away telling him to go piss on a tree.

He stormed off. He was still half hard and aching. He took the suggested piss first, right on the tree the half man liked to sit under in the gardens. Then he finished his patrol and another skin of wine. When he made it back to his chambers he took himself in hand twice before passing out. He didn't trust himself to go back to the brothels yet.

…

He was certain his blood was boiling. It had to be. It bubbled and hissed in his veins. He could hear it. But he stood tall and stiff, never letting onto his true thoughts. He was mentally taking down the name of every person in the hall. He would slaughter them all one day. They all stood still while Ser Meryn beat her. Beat her hard, not holding back at all and he had one more reason to piss on the vows of Sers. He was shamed to be glad the rat King hadn't called on him to do it. He would have refused, lost his head and then what use would he be to her?

Meryn tore her clothing by order of the King and he averted his eyes, bile rising in his throat. He'd wanted to see her stripped of clothing but not like this. Never like this. He heard her cry and it sounded like his sister pleading with Gregor to have mercy. He was one breath away from either slitting the King's throat or his own when the Imp entered the hall. The short little man put a stop to the beating, calling on someone to clothe her and he'd never been so grateful to see the Hand of the King in all his life. He instantly took to her side, tearing his own cloak off his back to cover her. He glared at the people of the hall, challenging anyone to stop him. They didn't. He had done the only thing he could. He never saw the cloak again. He often wondered what had become of it.

…

He'd lost site of her and he was panicked. He'd done his duty. The King was safe back inside the palace, but he had heard the Imp shouting for the girl and his own eyes couldn't find her! Please his mind begged while he searched the crowd once more while sending those who tried to stop him to their graves. And there it was! One small spot of fire in the mob. She was going the wrong way, down an alley and there were men at her heel. He snarled and smashed a peasant's head in against a wall. He knew exactly why the men were following her and he'd skin them all alive once he caught up.

She was already on her back by the time he found her. When he couldn't see her hair anymore he had followed her screams until he came upon the scene. He took the one trying to stick his prick in her first, lifting the man up with no effort at all on his part and gutting him like a hog. He was blind with rage at that point, grabbing the next man and stabbing him in the back. One tried to run and he ignored the cry for mercy. He enjoyed cutting that one's throat and hearing him gasp and gurgle instead. It was all over as soon as it began.

He set his knife back in place and stood tall. He took one moment to settle his features and silence the rage before he faced her. He tried his best to sound calm and convincing when he told her she was alright. He was thankful that she held his hand and didn't take him for one of the pieces of filth laying dead at her feet.

He carried her the entire way back to the palace. He was breathing heavy and his legs hurt when he set her down, despite her slight weight. It had been easier to move ten years ago. He ordered her maids to tend to her cut. In his exhausted state he slipped and used his chosen name for her. The fucking Imp congratulated him. It made him boil again. He hadn't done it for the Imp or the King or even himself. He'd done it for her.

…..

Keep walking he told himself. Just keep walking and don't talk. He'd made it past her. Good. And then she spoke. Seven Hells, he didn't want to do this. He knew she would thank him and he didn't want her gratitude. He didn't want her to think he was something he wasn't. He was never going to be what she wanted and he tried to tell her that, letting her know how sweet it was to kill. To feel rapture when he saw the light leave another man's eyes. It was a dark pleasure but it was the only one he had ever known.

She called him hateful and he threw it right back at her. Yes, he was hateful. Rightfully so and she would be glad for it one day. He wondered if she realized what his last statement to her meant. He would kill for her. He would turn traitor and die for her. He hated vows but promises still held meaning for him. He promised to protect her even if it cost him his life.

….

She was crying. He could hear her all the way down the hallway and saw her maid run in the opposite direction after another woman. He turned the corner to see her sitting and sobbing. What in the Seven Hells was going on? There was blood on the bed but she seemed physically unharmed. She was still sobbing and there was blood on the front of her nightgown as well. Near her . . . Oh. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! It seemed he was going to give up his life much sooner than he had thought he would.

…..

The first skin of wine did little to calm his nerves. He'd never seen death like that before. It chilled him down to his bones. He knew what it was like to burn. No man deserved to die that way and there had been hundreds of them. Thousands even, all screaming as they burnt to death. He'd found a second skin of wine to tuck into while he waited in her chamber. He didn't know if she would come or not but it gave him some small comfort to be surrounded by her things.

He was his own man now. He'd told them all to fuck off, every last one of them. It had been terrifying and joyous to finally take hold of his own life. He drank more wine and enjoyed the feeling of freedom.

Her door clicked open and the Little Bird flew by him, too scared to take notice of the hulking pile of armor sitting in a chair. He saw her pick up a doll and it hit him how young she really was. She didn't need his affections. She needed his protection. He announced himself. Told her he was going. He smiled inwardly at her tone when she asked where. She sounded like she actually cared. He offered to take her with him. He stank of blood and sweat. He was covered in gore and mud and he was asking her to go with him. He was a bloody fool. But he still hoped that if he reached out his hand to her one more time she would take it.

She didn't. Of course she didn't. He mentally berated himself for hoping. Hadn't he learned by now that there wasn't anything good in this world for him? He had to leave. He had no choice. If he stayed they'd string him up, then disembowel him, and then quarter him if there was anything left. There would be no quick death for him. If she wouldn't go with him he could only offer her one final lesson.

He growled at her to get her to look at him. She was scared witless but he needed her to understand. He wasn't evil. He wasn't good either. He was the same as every other man. They were all killers. Good and bad. Light and dark. He was no different. And if she could look upon them she could look upon him. He saw realization in her eyes. She said he wouldn't hurt her and he agreed. He would never hurt her. But she had made her choice and he had stayed too long already. He looked at her one last time, probably the last time he ever would and slowly left the room. He left his trampled hopes at her feet.

….

He grabbed what little coin he had and all the food and wine he could comfortably fit on Stranger. He tightened the saddle around his steed and took a back way out of the palace. He slipped off into the night with no interruptions. They were all celebrating the victory with people who were important to them. There was no one who worried about where a lost dog had run off to.

He rode hard for two days straight drinking the entire time. He only stopped when it was obvious that Stranger couldn't go on and that he was ready to fall out of the saddle. He took the last skins of wine, sat under a tree and drank until the world went black.


End file.
